


There And Bake Again

by bluebeholder



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Baker Bilbo, Baking, Everyone Is Still A Dwarf Hobbit Elf Or Dragon, Falling In Love, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Other Canon Characters - Freeform, Tolkien-Style Prose, Tried To Be In Character, or an attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 15:40:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17728037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebeholder/pseuds/bluebeholder
Summary: Bilbo Baggins, respectable baker at The Hobbit Hole Café on Bag End in the Shire, finds his life turned upside down when meddling wizard Gandalf the Grey comes to ask him along on anadventure. Overnight, Bilbo is thrown into a world of dwarves, new kinds of pastry, coffeeshop espionage, dragons, and singing trolls. He'll be lucky to get out alive...or, more accurately, he'll be lucky to get out without falling in love with master baker Thorin Oakenshield.





	There And Bake Again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pyxyl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pyxyl/gifts).



> HAPPY BIRTHDAY SIBLING!
> 
> Welcome, at long last, to the Bagginshield Coffeeshop AU I promised my sister for her birthday last year. It's taken me a year to complete, a year in which...lots of other thing happened. The style of the fic changes halfway through, I watched WAY too much Great British Bakeoff and got into Lords and Ladles, I wrote an entire epic for a different fandom, I nearly finished my college degree... 
> 
> It’s ridiculous how much I got done _that wasn’t this fic_. 
> 
> At the beginning a lot has been modified right from the text of the Hobbit; rest assured that doesn't last long. Very soon you'll get into the chaos of me writing something completely my own, and boy howdy is it a ride. I hope you enjoy!! :D
> 
> Let the adventure begin!

In a hole-in-the-wall café there worked a hobbit.

Not a nasty, dirty, hole-in-the-wall that didn’t comply with food safety standards—no, this was The Hobbit Hole, and that meant comfort. It had low ceilings and fireplaces, and wound around and around corners in a cosy maze. Nooks and crannies were everywhere with bulgy chairs that could be comfortably sunk into with a warm cup of coffee and a scone.

This was the restaurant which sat at the very end of the street of Bag End in the middle of the Shire, a quiet and pleasant sort of place where very little of excitement ever happened, or had happened in more years than the old Gaffer could remember. While drinking his coffee in the corner table which would perhaps belong to him forever, he would expound at length about the last great happenings of the neighborhood twenty-odd years before. The winter a burst pipe had turned the street into a sheet of ice, the upset at the community garden when two young gardeners had got into a hair-pulling match which led to both boys being evicted for the rest of the summer, and, of course, the startling fireworks put on by Gandalf at Midsummer several years ago.

It had been a while since Gandalf had been in the neighborhood, which most said was quite a decent thing. No more young lasses deciding that their talents would be better spent on becoming politicians and airplane pilots—no more young lads taking up jobs as cross-country truck drivers and doctors. In short—no adventures!

Bilbo Baggins, the chief manager at The Hobbit Hole, was content with all this. He worked as hobbits do, with an efficiency that makes them seem lazy to so many of the Tall Folk. He was an excellent brewer of tea and coffee, and an even more excellent baker, and the most excellent host of all. Bilbo was a small hobbit, not particularly rotund, but certainly not lean. He was wealthy, as hobbits go; but, more importantly, he was respectable. He never did anything untoward until that fateful morning when Gandalf the Grey at last returned to the Shire.

The bell over the door jingled merrily just as Bilbo was putting the finishing touches on a tray of fairy cakes. “One moment, please!” he called.

He finished the icing quickly and scurried out of the kitchen to the counter. It was hobbit-height, because very few of the Big People ever came this way. It was therefore a surprise to see a man looming over the counter. “Good morning!” said Bilbo. It was a good morning—Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, the afternoon manager, had taken a sick day and he would not have to see her. The fairy cakes had come out nicely and there was seed-cake for later.

The man looked down at Bilbo from under bushy gray brows. He wore a style of hat which had been out of fashion for years, and looked rather like costumery into the bargain, with its point and wide brim. “What do you mean?” he asked. “Do you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not; or that you feel good this morning; or that it is a morning to be good on?”

“All of them at once!” said Bilbo cheerfully. “What can I get for you?”

“Why, my dear hobbit,” said the man, “you have already brought me what I need: you yourself!”

Bilbo was taken aback. “Me?”

The man nodded briskly. “You see, I am looking for someone willing to share in an adventure.”

The word ‘adventure’ seemed to hang in the air, ominous and full of promises of great mountains and swords and jewels and dragon-fire in the night. The Tookish part of Bilbo reared up, and the Baggins in him shouted it down. Bilbo folded his arms. “We don't want any adventures here, thank you! You might try over The Hill or across The Water. Good morning!”

“What a lot of things you do use Good morning for!” the man exclaimed in amusement. “Now you mean that you want to get rid of me, and that it won’t be good till I move off.”

“The Management,” said Bilbo, rather stiffly—though he could not be blamed, when his decent morning had been so thrown off—“reserves the right to refuse service to anyone. And I have tried to be polite to you sir, but I bid you a very firm _Good Morning!_ ”

The man’s eyebrows shot up. “To think I would live to be ‘Good-morninged’ by Belladonna Took’s son, as if I were handing out copies of The Watchtower at the door! I am Gandalf, you fool. I came to the Shire to find the best baker in these parts, and they told me that was you!”

“I am the best,” said Bilbo. Perhaps he puffed up a little, and might have even glared a bit, but who would blame him? His pride had been severely poked.

“Then prove yourself, Bilbo Baggins!” Gandalf exclaimed. “I do not ask you to become a warrior or a burglar or anything of the sort. What I need is a baker.”

“Why?” Bilbo asked, quite wary. Who needed a baker on an adventure?

Instead of answering, Gandalf merely smiled. “There is a party tonight at the Erebor Bakery,” he said. He set an envelope, presumably containing the invitation, on the counter. “If you attend, I think you shall understand quite well what your role in this adventure will be.”

And just like that, the old wizard was gone, striding out the door with a merry laugh. Bilbo saw the clouds of smoke from his pipe—a pipe, a real pipe, and not a cigarette or a vape pen!—puffing away as he went away down the hill.

Bilbo tried not to think about the party. It was far too unexpected, and Bilbo Baggins was a hobbit who never did unexpected things. And still, when evening drew near, he found himself tucking a clean handkerchief in his pocket, picking up the invitation, and making his way downtown to the bakery.

The building was a great mountain of old stone, with battered gargoyles ringing the roof like sentries. The sign was cut above the door, once in Westron and again in sharp runes that shone faintly silver in the moonlight. The sign on the door did not say “Open”, nor did it say “Closed”. It said “No Entry Except On Party Business”, and because Bilbo had his invitation to the party in his hand he boldly opened the door and went inside.

It was a truly raucous affair. There were twelve dwarves, all talking and laughing at once, with large tankards of ale and bottles of craft brew with a black arrow on the label, sitting in the middle of the vast hall. They were quite clearly feasting on roast chicken and hearty breads and cheeses and it all smelled quite delightful.

It was surprisingly lofty—Bilbo had never been in a dwarvish hall before, and he had expected it to be just a touch more cramped. But no: there were ribbed vaults and paintings on the walls in jewel-tones and gold leaf, and if the ceilings were raw and unfinished and the floor was concrete it still felt palatial.

At first no one noticed that Bilbo had come in, for he stayed near the door clutching his invitation and watching. (Of course Gandalf knew he was there, but Gandalf was also of course meddling in the affairs of dwarves and hobbits and had motives of his own.) The dwarves ate and drank for a long time. At last they began to sing a song, an old song about misty mountains and dragons, and though it was thrilling, Bilbo’s feet near begged him to take flight.

All at once the door behind Bilbo opened and Bilbo was knocked quite off his feet. A cheer went up, dwarves shouting, “Thorin! Thorin!” and Bilbo was positively flummoxed. He looked up—and up, and up, for dwarves are not so tall to Men but to a hobbit are most imposing—to see the piercing eyes of a terribly handsome dwarf. He wore midnight blue, a rich color, and Bilbo suddenly appreciated the look of a beard as he never quite had before.

Bilbo scrambled to his feet. “I am terribly sorry! I ought to have stood away from the door!”

“And who is this?” the dwarf asked, looking to Gandalf and rudely ignoring Bilbo’s apology.

“Ah, that is Bilbo Baggins,” said Gandalf. “He has agreed very kindly to work _pro bono_ and _ex tempore_ as your newest baker.”

“As their newest baker?” Bilbo asked, feeling rather struck by lightning.

One of the dwarves, who looked younger than the rest and wore knitted fingerless gloves, said timidly, “Well, Gandalf promised to bring us someone to help out with our bakery. It’s rather…failing, you see, and we have to change things…”

“Hush, Ori,” said a fussy-looking dwarf with elaborately braided silver hair. “There’s no need to tell all our problems to a strange hobbit!”

Gandalf cleared his throat importantly. “It is a problem that is easy to see when the finances are taken into account,” said the wizard. “As you know very well, Dori, Thorin took them into account, and asked me to bring in a consultant to assist in the rebuilding of the future of Erebor. And now here he is. Bilbo Baggins, your hobbit.”

A dwarf with a dark red beard snorted. “This kitchen is no place for a little fellow like this! Why, he couldn’t swing a rolling pin if he tried.”

“Gloin, you asked me to find the fourteenth man for this venture, and I have found him,” said Gandalf, frowning from under his bushy brows. “I have chosen Mr. Baggins, and if you think that I have chosen wrongly then you may take your unlucky thirteen and go back to working at Starbucks.”

“And besides,” said Bilbo, feeling his pride poked again, “I am good with a rolling pin. I suppose that you haven’t got the dexterity for crimping a pie!”

Before the dwarf could become temperamental, another, an old dwarf with a snow-white beard, said mildly, “Perhaps, Gandalf, you should introduce us all before there’s another brawl.”

“Right you are, Master Balin,” said Gandalf. He rose to his feet and gestured so grandly that his sleeve was nearly in the soup. “Bilbo! Allow me to introduce Fili, Kili, Oin, Gloin, Dwalin, Balin, Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, Dori, Nori, Ori, and the leader of our company…Thorin Oakenshield.” That last was to the handsome dwarf, who still stood quite near Bilbo, looking down at him with a scowl.

“I am at your service!” said Bilbo at once, remembering his manners. He bowed low.

“Not a very large baker,” one of the dwarves rumbled. He had a great black beard and tattoos on his bald head and looked thunderous and forbidding.

“Ah, Dwalin, but he is as fierce as a dragon in a pinch!” said Gandalf with a secretive smile.

“You have brought a hobbit to us, Gandalf,” said Thorin Oakenshield. His voice was rich and would make anyone weak in the knees to hear. “I thought you were bringing us a baker of renown.”

Gandalf looked quite thunderous. “Thorin Oakenshield! Would you like to see the business of your ancestors go down like a forest on fire? If I say that Bilbo Baggins is a baker of renown then that is what he is, and I have said so! Therefore let it be. Take him or not, but on your own stubborn head be it!”

And then Thorin looked at Bilbo. “Can you bake, Master Baggins?” he asked, and Bilbo rather felt that he was being mocked. “Do you break meringues, or sink soufflés, or melt a baked Alaska?”

“I have never made a baked Alaska,” said Bilbo, putting his hands on his hips and glaring up at the dwarf, “but I have never broken a meringue in my life, and I can make cheese or chocolate or spinach soufflés. And I can construct a croquembouche, and ice a fairy cake—which I daresay that not a dwarf in this establishment has ever done—and I can make a sponge cake as light as a feather. I don’t pretend to understand why Gandalf brought me here, but I think I am right in believing that you think I am no good. I will show you. What time should I arrive for work tomorrow?”

Thorin looked quite thoughtfully at Bilbo then, and though Bilbo had felt very large and strong for a moment he felt himself shrink down again under that weighty gaze. “Not tomorrow, I think!” said Thorin, “for it is Saturday, and we have plans.”

“To go to Bjorn’s Brown Bear Diner for the hangover breakfast,” a dwarf with golden hair and many braids said cheerfully.

The young, beardless fellow next to him smiled quite brightly. “The hobbit should join us,” he said, but a dwarf with hair styled up like a starfish elbowed the young dwarf sharply.

“—but!” said Thorin, cutting off any further discussion, “Master Baggins, we will await your respected person at 11 a.m. sharp on Sunday.”

“You may trust,” said Bilbo, being on his dignity, “that I will be punctual.” And just like that, he turned on his heel and went out the door.

 

***

 

The next morning, Bilbo could hardly believe what he’d done. He awoke thinking that all of it had been a strange dream, caused by too much cheese, but then he saw the invitation sitting on the table and his heart sank. He was very nearly going to call up Gandalf and refuse to ever go back, but his Baggins dignity and Tookish spirit were for once in agreement.

“No, Bilbo,” he said to himself, “you’ve gone and got yourself into it now! Go back? No good at all! Go sideways? Impossible! Go forward? Only thing to do! This is an adventure and no mistake! But those dwarves shall see what a hobbit is made of.”

So Bilbo busied himself with brushing up on all his best recipes and making sure that he had all the necessary luggage that a traveling baker needs. The dwarves, he was sure, would not have rolling-pins small enough for hobbit hands, nor would they have the collection of fine piping tips which made Bilbo so proud. And on second thought, Bilbo took his silver measuring set—from the miniature smidgen spoon up to the quart-sized cup. Lobelia Sackville-Baggins had her eye on these and Bilbo did not trust her. In addition he took his own towels and spices because who knew what a dwarf might have in their kitchen?

On Sunday at 10:45, Bilbo arrived at the door of Erebor Bakery. Though the sign read “CLOSED”, he found it unlocked when he tried the handle. There was a clanking sound from the bell above the door, but not a sound from the front of the room. Plenty of noise—a downright cacophony—came from the kitchen, which was presumably where Bilbo was expected to be.

He took a moment to survey his surroundings and decide what to do. The room was very grand and very odd. The stone-worked ceilings and painted walls made the place seem a palace; the battered, mismatched chairs and tables looked like six rummage sales’ worth of junk; and the delicately crocheted doilies on tables and knitted pillowcases on throw pillows might have come from the house of a hobbit grandmother. It made Bilbo’s head spin.

But the bakery case drew his attention. It was long and well-lit, and there were goods in it, clearly for the afternoon rush which hadn’t yet begun. Bilbo trotted over, set down his satchel, and took a good long look. And that made Bilbo’s head spin, too.

Everything in the case looked delightful, but huge. Pretzels the size of Bilbo’s head, some rolled in enough cinnamon and sugar that there were ramparts of the stuff heaped around them on their tray and some studded with rock salt that sparkled like diamonds in the case’s light. Huge triangular scones, thick and fluffy, cranberries and blueberries and raisins and sultanas winking out like jewels from the crust. Cinnamon rolls the size of a dinner plate—not a hobbit’s dinner plate, which is prodigious indeed, but a man’s, which is larger still—packed with rich nuts and dripping with icing. A variety of simply gorgeous hand pies and pasties, golden-crusted and nearly bursting at the seams with savory-looking filling. Muffins of all kinds, chocolate and blueberry and more, looking soft and delightful.

“How in the world could a place like this be failing!” Bilbo exclaimed to himself.

Just at that moment, a fat dwarf, beard braided in a loop with a net carefully wrapped around it, came out from the kitchen door. He had a tray of thick donuts in his hand, but he stopped upon seeing Bilbo. “Upon my word! Mr. Baggins!”

“At your service and your family’s,” said Bilbo immediately. His manners must be impeccable today, and so they were. “May I ask your name?”

“Bombur,” said the dwarf. He bowed as low as his girth would allow. “At your service! Have you been standing long?”

“No, I have not,” said Bilbo. “I have only just arrived!”

Bombur smiled broadly. “Well, then, welcome to Erebor!” He swept out a hand to indicate the whole of the room. “We have cleaned and redecorated, but—as I’m sure Gandalf has told you—that has not done much for us, in the end.”

Gandalf had, in point of fact, not told Bilbo any of this, but Bilbo was determined not to let on to that! “I understand very well,” said the hobbit, and tapped the side of his nose with what he hoped was a knowing sort of expression. It was a polite deceit, and it seemed to work very well, for Bombur asked not a single question.

“Come along to the kitchen! and take a donut,” said Bombur, swinging up the hinged part of the counter so Bilbo might come behind. Bilbo refrained from telling Bombur that he might as well not bother, since Bilbo was so short that the top of his curls might barely brush the bottom of the hinged piece.

And Bilbo did take a donut. It was a perfect thing, and again Bilbo was flummoxed at the idea that a place which made such good bakes could possibly fail. But he did not comment. Instead, he munched on the donut and followed Bombur into the kitchen.

Eleven other dwarves bustled about in the kitchen. The ovens were going and the heat was terrible, but the delicious smells were enough to make Bilbo wish for a second breakfast. Bombur clapped his hands loudly as they came in. “Gather ’round! Our new baker is here!”

The dwarves very nearly dropped what they were doing to hurry over and greet Bilbo. They were all very loud and cheerful, shaking his hand and bowing after the manner of dwarves.

Kili was young and dark and beardless; Fili, his brother, was golden and smiled rakishly. They were supposed to be bakers, but the chorus of boos from the rest of the Company told Bilbo quite clearly that the young dwarves did no work at all. Bifur, a barista, was quiet, and there was a meat tenderizer embedded in his head. His brother Bofur, friendly and prone to jokes, worked the counter. And Bombur was the third brother, who did not bake but made all the other food that the establishment served.

Ori was a quiet soul who blinked owlishly at Bilbo before returning shyly to his knitting. Nori, the dwarf with starfish hair, was the advertising man, and his charm was enough to make Bilbo’s nose crinkle. Dori was silver-haired, regal, and standoffish, but when Bilbo mentioned tea, the old dwarf looked delighted and whispered to Bilbo about a secret stash. The even-older Oin, who had cinnamon in his wild beard and wore hearing aids, shouted at Bilbo about how glad he was to have another baker working here. Red-bearded Gloin was courteous, but clearly a little suspicious of Bilbo. Dwalin, with his bald head and tattoos, was unsurprisingly found to be the evening bartender and could not bake at all. And Balin, who was oldest of them all, managed the finances.

“Mr. Baggins, I should speak with you on the subject of finances soon,” said Balin. “I suspect that Gandalf has left you rather in the dark.”

“I confess, after seeing your bakery case, that I don’t quite understand how things could be terrible here,” said Bilbo. He looked around and found himself disappointed: “Has Mr. Oakenshield decided not to join us today?”

“Thorin is on business,” said Kili importantly.

“We expect today to simply be a trial run, where you can see what we bake and perhaps give us some suggestions,” Balin said. He did not sound exasperated, but Bilbo could very clearly hear that he was irritated with the leader of the Company.

Bofur clapped Bilbo on the shoulder, nearly toppling the hobbit over. “Put on your apron and join us, Mr. Baggins! We’d like to have you help us in the kitchen today.”

And Bilbo, putting on a brave face, donned his apron and set to work. He found to his dismay that this was none of The Hobbit Hole’s genteel baking, but loud and crass and chaotic. They flung plates through the air, stomped and clapped and danced. It was quite loud and very dangerous. The dwarves noticed soon enough. How they laughed at Bilbo’s discomfort!

“Careful! you’ll blunt the knives!” said Bilbo, when he saw Bofur, Dori, Bombur, and Nori playing some sort of absurd version of pat-a-cake with the clean silverware.

“Do you hear that?” Bofur cried above the ruckus. “He says we’ll blunt the knives!”

Kili’s eyes sparkled with fun and he began to sing. “Blunt the knives and bend the forks!”

“Smash the bottles and burn the corks,” Fili added.

“Chip the glasses and crack the plates,” the dwarves chorused, “that’s what Bilbo Baggins hates!”

Bilbo was, again, for the third time in as many days, quite flummoxed. He watched as plates soared about him dizzily, the dwarves timing their song to the kneading of bread and the stirring of curry.

“Cut the cloth and tread on the fat! Pour the milk on the pantry floor! Leave the bones on the bedroom mat! Splash the wine on every door!” the dwarves chorused, stacking bowls in poor Ori’s arms until he couldn’t see over the top. “Dump the crocks in a boiling bowl; pound them up with a thumping pole; and when you've finished, if any are whole…send them down the hall to roll!”

Suddenly Bilbo noticed that none of these terrible things were actually happening. Kitchen towels were being folded and put away in a linen closet; milk was being poured into a steamer; the bones of a chicken cut up for soup were carefully put in a plastic bag; bottles of wine in a crate were carried to a dark pantry; and Oin was very carefully washing up all the dishes that the others set by him.

“That’s what Bilbo Baggins hates!” the dwarves sang.

And the back door of the kitchen opened wide to reveal Thorin Oakenshield standing on the step, smiling. “So, carefully! carefully with the plates!” he said. His gaze lingered for a moment upon Bilbo, weighty and dark. Bilbo shivered a little, for it was like being under the eyes of a king. A humble hobbit could never be used to such treatment.

“Upon my word, Thorin!” said Balin. “You are late!”

Thorin entered the kitchen, suddenly scowling like a thundercloud. The door banged shut behind him. “Smaug kept me late.”

A discontented muttering ran round the kitchen and the hair on Bilbo’s neck prickled. “Who is this Smaug?” he asked.

“The one who’d like to buy up the whole block and turn this place into condominiums,” said Gloin, scowling nearly as fiercely as Thorin.

“He’s a dragon,” said Fili.

“You mean a greedy, cruel miser?” Bilbo asked.

Bofur cleared his throat. “No,” he said, “Smaug is a dragon. Could roast you in a moment if he breathed fire at you. Wings like a hurricane, a hundred feet from tip to tail!”

Bilbo nodded, attempting to look thoughtful and knowledgeable and not as if he had wilted like a dandelion sprayed with weed-killer at Bofur’s words. “Am I to somehow defeat Smaug?” he asked. “Steal from him? Slay him like a dragon?”

“No, Mr. Baggins,” said Thorin. “You are to give us the chance to compete against the Mirkwood Café, run by the elves across the street. If we can make ourselves successful, then Smaug will look elsewhere in search of easier prey!”

It was quite clear that the dwarves were in terrible trouble, though they would not of course say it out loud. So Bilbo made up his mind. “Well, I think your Company is quite good,” said the hobbit, “and I shall try to help you, if I can!”

Thorin looked at him keenly. “Well, Mr. Baggins, what do you recommend?”

“You need some lighter fare, Mr. Oakenshield!” said Bilbo. He thought about that great case and about all the things he’d seen the dwarves baking that day. “Scones, but not only those giant ones you make. Dainty scones, lemon-poppyseed and vanilla and such. Fairy cakes—you could sell those by fours, if you liked—and little cookies. Not those great things, you know: I mean small cookies! Snickerdoodles, chocolate chip, sugar, and so on. And I have tasted your pie dough, and it would only be a little alteration to make it into small tarts. Lemon, I think, and apple, and custard. Danishes and other sorts of pastries always draw quite the crowd! But you’re all good bakers, and I see quite easily that all we must do to make this business successful is to get people in the door.”

“A fair and simple plan!” said Thorin. He nodded gravely and looked around at the Company. “We have tried everything but selling new fare, and perhaps that is the key to our success. So we will try this idea of yours, and hope that it succeeds!”

 

***

 

The day finished in fine fashion, and Bilbo returned early the next day prepared for hard work. He set to with a will, outlining the new recipes he prepared painstakingly the night before. The curious dwarves clustered about him, exclaiming in surprise as Bilbo spoke of light and fluffy cookies, choux pastry, and rosewater scones. There was a gleam in Gloin’s eye as they plotted and planned.

Ori took beautiful colored chalk and stood on a high stepladder to rewrite the menu in his neat handwriting, while Nori and Balin meticulously printed new cards for the case. Gloin studied Bilbo’s recipes, while Oin went on making the usual large goods. Bombur solicited Bilbo’s advice on some of the pastry fillings and sorts of sandwiches he made, and when Fili and Kili became too wild Bilbo put them quickly to work on mixing up muffin batter. Dori, Bifur, and Bofur cleaned the atrium of the bakery, and Dwalin put his great strength to work in putting in new shelves in the bakery case.

Thorin was, again, absent; but that was only until afternoon. He arrived in fine fettle, with a man grim-voiced and grim-faced, who was called Bard the Brewman. “He is the proprietor of the Black Arrow Brewery,” said Dwalin to Bilbo, “and a fine brewery it is! Theirs is the only drink we stock, except for the product of the Blue Mountain Brewery which comes from Thorin’s royal sister Dís. There’s no point to trying the drinks from Long Lake—their master brewer is without a drop of taste!”

Bilbo watched in amazement as the dwarves unloaded great barrels and casks of beer and ale, which Dwalin would tap at night when the bakery became a tavern. “I could stand upright inside a single one of these!” the hobbit exclaimed, rapping his knuckles upon the side.

“And we’d float you down the river!” said Kili with cheer. He mussed Bilbo’s hair and Bilbo spluttered with indignation.

“What’s all this about Thorin’s sister owning a brewery?” Bilbo asked Balin later, when he was working on dough for miniature tarts.

Balin chuckled and put his thumbs in his belt. “The lady Dís is obstinate!” said the dwarf. “She thinks it a crime that most dwarvish ladies do not own their own businesses. So she owns a brewery!”

Bilbo was busy with rubbing butter into flour and sugar. “Are any of the Company married?” he asked with great interest.

“Only two!” replied Balin. “Gloin has a wife called Hildur and a son called Gimli, only just younger than Fili and Kili and recently come into his majority. He is a furniture-maker now, and…well, there’s a touch of scandal to the whole thing, but it’s he who helped to furnish the Mirkwood Café.”

“The café the elves own?” inquired Bilbo. He cracked two eggs into a bowl and began to whisk.

“Indeed,” said Balin. He went on: “And Bombur is married to a great beauty Lín, and has fourteen children in sum.”

“Fourteen children! However do they manage?” exclaimed Bilbo. He added the eggs to the dough and mixed it all up, patting the dough into a disk and wrapping it in cling film. Then he trotted across the kitchen to the refrigerator and put the disk in to chill for a bit.

“By budgeting upon a shoestring, and praying that Erebor does not fail,” said Balin firmly, and Bilbo saw at once the desperate need of success upon him now.

On his second day in the bakery he was greeted in the early hours of the morning by Thorin Oakenshield. Bilbo had arrived before any of the dwarves, intending to test a new kind of scone with one of the dwarves’ recipes. He did not make it five steps into the kitchen before Thorin appeared before him, looking stern.

“Good morning, Mr. Baggins,” he said.

“Why, good morning!” said Bilbo. He was quite astonished. “I did not expect to see you this morning, Mr. Oakenshield!”

“I came to assist you,” Thorin said stiffly. He stepped aside and allowed Bilbo to pass, pulling the stepstool up beside the counter so he could better reach. “I have not yet seen you in the kitchen, and in the final accounting your baking skill is all that matters.”

Bilbo had a small flash of indignance, but he quelched it quickly. “I hope I do not disappoint!” he exclaimed. “I came to try out a new sort of scone. Raspberry and white chocolate. Bombur never mentioned it, but I’ve seen it used in bakes before!”

Thorin stood beside Bilbo’s place at the counter, watching as Bilbo dashed about collecting all the things he required. He’d brought a pound of fresh raspberries and white chocolate of his own, from the best confectioner in the Shire. As for the rest, the dwarves had that.

All was quiet in the kitchen as Bilbo began to work, the morning sun just beginning to shine in the doors of the bakery. He sifted together the dry ingredients, careful as always to leave no lumps, and whisked it all together. Cutting in the butter had to be done by hand—Bilbo had expected a proper dough cutter, but it seemed the dwarves trusted their own hands. Bilbo didn’t mind. It had been years since he had his hands so messy! His Tookish side rejoiced.

“I’ve never made such scones before,” said Bilbo, cutting up white chocolate to about half a cup.

“And I’ve never seen such a conscientious baker,” said Thorin. He was watching Bilbo with those great keen eyes and Bilbo, as usual, felt small beneath their weight. “Every member of this Company loves his craft and is a master of it. You clearly are a master, Gandalf spoke truth to that! Yet I have never seen someone take so little joy in their work.”

Bilbo felt as if he’d been struck by lightning. “So little joy!?”

“You are nothing like the dwarves,” said Thorin.

“And that is why you have hired me!” said Bilbo. He turned and, with a daring that was nothing but the affronted dignity of a Baggins, poked a floury finger into Thorin’s chest. “I am careful, Mr. Oakenshield, because delicate things take time, and I delight in those delicate things! These scones are coarse dough, and _I_ do not insult them or their makers!”

Thorin’s eyes flashed. “Have you tasted these scones?” he demanded. “They will be soft and tender, with a delicate crumb! I may have spoken out of turn, but your insults cannot be tolerated! What do you know of dwarves?”

Bilbo took a moment to clear his head. “Well,” he said, “I apologize. I was angry, but you are quite right, these will be beautiful scones.”

“I suppose that I was wrong,” said Thorin, a touch begrudgingly, but sincerely. “You are the baker we need to save Erebor. My pride is…injured by having to rely on someone else, when my father and grandfather did no such thing.”

“I only hope I can help,” said Bilbo. He carefully emptied the chocolate, and six ounces of raspberries, into the crumbly dough and began to fold it all in gently.

Things went along again in a quiet that was perhaps more peaceful than it was before. Bilbo had to admit that, when he wasn’t prickly, Thorin was pleasant company! Whenever he flashed that smile of his about Bilbo couldn’t help the uncomfortable fluttery feeling in his stomach.

Perhaps this adventure was a mistake for a far different reason than Bilbo had expected.

 

***

 

Days at the coffeeshop turned into weeks and already Bilbo saw a marked difference in the business at the shop. A more diverse clientele, of more Men and some very brave hobbits, has begun to venture in to see about the rumors of a hobbit working there. Bard the Brewman had apparently put the word out and the men of neighboring Lake Town were very interested in the whole affair. They came prepared to laugh; Bilbo sent them away happily munching on delicious foods.

He got along rather well with all the dwarves. They were a good Company, despite their rough edges and habit of being far too loud far too early in the morning. Bilbo spent a great deal of time with Ori, Oin, and Gloin baking, and just as much with Fili and Kili, trying to wrangle the brothers into working. (When he could not get them to work, he sent them off to be a problem for the front to handle, at the coffee machine or counter.) Bombur, too, became Bilbo’s close friend, since he had a deft hand with all things not made of pastry.

Dori always had tea ready at the end of a long day, and when Bilbo partook, Balin would often appear to share. Bofur would be full of stories of customers and counter hijinks; Bifur’s ramblings, when translated, added only more hilarity. Nori, who worked a great deal as a barista as well, had equally as many stories. And as day slipped into evening, the bar would open and Dwalin would take over the whole establishment for his turn of things.

And Thorin, of course, was in the thick of it all. Of course he had to meet with important people, like Bard or his cousin Dain of the Iron Hills Restaurant, but when he was not out and about, he was in the back, baking. Bilbo found to his surprise that, though Thorin was indeed prone to moods and sudden bouts of melancholy, he was also equally as capable of singing or joking as the others of the Company. In the evening he could drink a pint with any dwarf.

Bilbo was becoming rather attached to Thorin. With their first awkwardness over, they respected each other more every day. And Bilbo found, too, that he found Thorin more _attractive_ every day. The Baggins part of him despaired—thinking such things of a dwarf?—but the Tookish part utterly rejoiced.

A month and a half after Bilbo began working at the bakery, the combined efforts of Bilbo and all the dwarves proved to be a sort of fix for their troubles. Curiosity faded into a steady flow of regular customers. All was, for a moment, content.

In the Erebor kitchen, Bilbo perfected many of his own recipes. He also found himself very invested in finding ways to fuse dwarvish methods with hobbitish ones. Gloin’s shortcrust pastry, usually meant for pasties filled with meat or curries, worked equally well for spiced apple fillings. In return, Gloin used Bilbo’s perfect puff pastry to fill with peas, bacon, and mascarpone—rich and filling and very dwarvish.

At least where food was concerned, dwarves and hobbits might as well be the same.

 

***

 

It was Fili and Kili who stumbled into a marketing scheme that very nearly got Erebor burnt to the ground, and not by Smaug’s dragonfire. The brothers barreled in one day, just at closing time, waving a flier at Bilbo where he stood behind the counter. Their chatter was incomprehensible, so Bilbo took the paper from them and read it himself. He felt his eyebrows climbing up and up, nearly to his hairline.

“You can’t be serious,” Nori said, reading over Bilbo’s shoulder.

As it turned out, they were serious.

It was a band. A small, up-and-coming band, not one of any particular fame, but getting quite the local reputation. They were called “The Trolls,” and they _were_ trolls. Three huge creatures of no great appeal, prone to bickering and arguing—but making, apparently, terribly good music.

After much wrangling, it was decided that one evening The Trolls would be hosted at Erebor. Nori and Balin handled the details of the hiring process, and Dwalin, begrudgingly, agreed that his night as a bartender would not be significantly hurt by their presence. Even if goblins came, and it was expected that they would come, Thorin ruled in the end that it was a risk they could afford to take.

Bilbo stayed late that evening, deciding that—as long as there was company in the bakery—he could stay in back and prepare petit-fours for the following day. The dwarves all went out to manage the crowd and watch the spectacle. It was loud enough that Bilbo had no interest in it, though through the kitchen door the music was tolerable.

He couldn’t identify the genre, but the songs seemed in definite poor taste. The titles were, at any rate, rather disturbing. “Skin Them”—what were they skinning? The song “Here, Who Are You?” seemed like one discomfortingly long guitar riff. “Parasites” was a song not fit for any eating establishment. Their “Lots And None At All” was rather heavy on the drums, though it got many cheers. And though Bilbo thought the lyrics inane, “Mutton Yesterday, Mutton Today, And Blimey If It Don’t Look Like Mutton Again Tomorrow” had a catchy beat and tune that had him tapping his toes in the kitchen while mixing up the icing.

The ballad “Dawn Comes Early” was a shocking end to the whole thing, remarkably beautiful, slow-paced, and sung gorgeously. If that had been all their music, Bilbo might have enjoyed the concert. As it was, he mainly enjoyed the time alone in the kitchen making the petit-fours. There was thunderous applause and shouts for an encore.

At that moment, Thorin came into the kitchen from the front with a bang, slamming the door behind him. For a moment he seemed not to realize that Bilbo was present, but then a smile appeared on his face. “I thought you’d abandoned us,” he said.

“I thought I should at least be in the building,” answered Bilbo. He dusted off his hands and leaned upon the counter. “Did you enjoy the concert?”

“Except for the presence of the goblins and the moment where they all began waving torches and nearly set the rafters on fire, yes,” said Thorin. He went to the sink to wash his hands. “Do you mind if I join you?”

Bilbo’s heart skipped a beat as Thorin rolled up his sleeves. “Not at all!” he said, as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

Thorin dried his hands and began to get out measuring cups and bins of flour. “Did _you_ enjoy the concert?” he asked.

“It’s not my style of music, though I think they could have done more with ‘Skin Them’,” remarked Bilbo. He gave Thorin a sly look. “After all, isn’t that the secret to cooking dwarves?”

At that, Thorin looked disgruntled. He banged a bowl onto the counter with rather more force than necessary. “You test my patience.”

Bilbo laughed, turning back to his work with the icing. “Perhaps it isn’t the secret after all! After all, Thorin, you seem to have a rather thin skin.”

There was a pause, and then Thorin joined Bilbo in laughing. “I deserved that,” he said. “You’ve outmatched my wits again. But I shall have my say soon enough!”

“I look forward to it!” said Bilbo. He cast Thorin a glance and saw Thorin leaning against the counter, watching him with piercing blue eyes and ignoring the dough he should have been making. The look made Bilbo’s heart skip another beat, and he found that he couldn’t quite look away.

“Oh?” Thorin asked.

Bilbo swallowed through a dry throat and forged onward. “Yes, I do! Though I think it might take a rather long while, Thorin. You have, after all, admitted that I am the quicker wit between us.”

Thorin sighed, but it was not a frustrated sigh. Bilbo couldn’t quite place the emotion, but now his heart was pattering like a rabbit’s from the look on Thorin’s face. “Very true, Bilbo,” said Thorin. He turned back to the bread. “And I find I enjoy your wit more every day.”

 

***

 

“Confusticate and bebother these dwarves,” said Bilbo as he crossed another busy street, headed for the Greenwood Café. He sidestepped an oblivious pedestrian. On the street, a motorbike of the Rohirrim roared past. “Asking me to go and steal a cinnamon roll recipe! Whatever will they think of next? I’ll need a magic ring that turns me invisible just to get in the front door!”

Of course, despite all the difficulties, Bilbo had agreed to do it when Thorin asked. It wasn’t, per se, stealing the recipe. No, Bilbo was only to get the cinnamon in a box to-go, and then bring it _right_ back to Erebor so that they could all see what made it so special.

Greenwood Café was quite busy at this time of day. It was a popular place—Erebor’s greatest competitor. By day, it was an espresso-and-tea bar with an apparently delightful bakery case; by night, it was a wine-and-cheese destination. At the door, Bilbo took a deep breath and went inside.

He stopped short just inside the door and gazed around at the establishment. The architecture was light and airy; pleasant music sounded just below the murmur of conversation inside. Everything was green and silver. Chairs and tables were stylishly mismatched, but spare and elegant. All in all, it was as far from the homely air of Erebor or the cosy tunnels of The Hobbit Hole as it was possible to get.

At the counter worked several tall and graceful elves. They had a more regal affect than the elves of Rivendell, the bookshop down the road which Bilbo regularly visited. At the counter was a handsome elf, blond, who Bilbo found he recognized for some strange reason; working at the coffeemaker was a red-haired elf who Bilbo definitely knew. He skipped the line to duck over and say,

“Tauriel?”

She leaned over the counter and smiled. “Hello, Bilbo,” she said. “What brings you here?”

Bilbo thought furiously. Kili had shown Bilbo a picture of his girlfriend Tauriel, and at the time Bilbo hadn’t thought it so odd. It was only now, standing in Greenwood Café, that Bilbo was struck with the realization that Kili was apparently dating an employee of his uncle’s greatest business rival. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said, instead of all that.

“No, we haven’t,” said Tauriel. “But I’m guessing you know Kili?”

“I work—ah, I’m a friend of his uncle’s.” It was a quick bit of improvisation, but Tauriel didn’t question it at all. “I’d no idea you worked here!”

Tauriel looked a bit embarrassed. “Well, I don’t think I said much to Kili about where I worked,” she said. She glanced down the counter at the cash register. “Legolas thought it would be a bad idea.”

“Hm,” said Bilbo. “Well, it’s been a pleasure, but I really must go and get in line.”

“I’ll tell Legolas that you should have a friend’s discount,” said Tauriel with a wink.

Bilbo withdrew, shaking his head in astonishment, to join the queue for ordering. He looked at the coffee menu and sighed. Espresso, cappuccino, latte…none of the hearty drinks on offer at Erebor, and as for the teas, they were exotic and tempting, but Bilbo had always been a simple tea-drinker at best.

As for the bakery case…that was a treasure hoard to rival a dragon’s. There were the mini cinnamon rolls which Bilbo was supposed to order and taste. There were elegant naked cakes—not with buttercream, as Bilbo might have served them, but with meringue. There was a mirror cake on display, too, which was honestly just showing off. Of course there were macarons, displayed like jewels in a rainbow of colors. There were eclairs, which looked delicious, and cream puffs, which looked to be pastry cream rather than Gloin’s preferred filling of richly sweet whipped cream. He had to shake his head at the trifles served in wine glasses—only served to customers staying to eat in the café. There were petite scones, tiny triangles of soft dough, with thin icing: vanilla, green tea, orange, or lemon. Someone in the kitchen was a true artist, judging by the gorgeous icing on the sugar cookies. Soft croissants were on display, with no chocolate; then, in small paper cups, there were pieces of delicate mille-feuille.

Bilbo could hardly bring himself to order only the cinnamon roll when he got to the counter.

“It’s good to meet you at last, Mr. Baggins,” said Legolas earnestly as he rang up the total.

“At last?” asked Bilbo, eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. “What do you mean, ‘at last?’ Has Kili been telling tales to every employee here?”

The tips of Legolas’ ears turned a bit red. “Not Kili, no,” he said. He cleared his throat. “Tauriel is not the only one who has friends among the dwarves!”

It occurred to Bilbo only as he was going back up the street to Erebor that he knew where he’d seen Legolas’ face before. Gloin’s son Gimli had been showing Bilbo some picture or another last week, and as he’d flipped through his album, Bilbo had seen a photograph of an elf—an elf who Bilbo only now recognized as Legolas!

He decided it was best not to tell Thorin about any of this.

 

***

 

It was on a Saturday morning when Bilbo was finally invited along to Bjorn’s Brown Bear Diner to have breakfast. He went along cheerfully, meeting the dwarves there in the early hours of the morning. Nearly all were hungover from the celebratory Friday night they’d spent; Bilbo was not, nor were Thorin, Dori, and Balin, but they seemed the exception to the rule. Bilbo had not been at the party last night, preferring to go home and enjoy a quiet evening in. Gloin and Bombur were not in attendance, being home with their families instead. This morning Bofur, with a headache and a twinkle in his eye, came to collect Bilbo from his house on Bagshot Row, so they might go to breakfast.

At the table, Bilbo put himself quite firmly between Dori and Thorin. Dori knew what the best tea to drink would be, and Thorin was the best conversationalist. Between them Bilbo thought he would enjoy the meal just fine.

To his surprise there was no meat served at the meal, none of the bacon or chicken fried steak or ham which Bilbo would have expected the dwarves to eat. Instead there were pancakes with butter, honey, jam, and clotted cream, endless plates of them! Though it was all quite the same fare, plate after plate, Bilbo never tired of the breakfast. Their host, Beorn, was an immense man who Kili told Bilbo, later, was really a bear in his spare time.

Just now Bilbo was extremely preoccupied with the pancakes. The dwarves, quaffing coffee like water, kept bursting into snatches of song. Bofur had them all in shouts of laughter when he performed a mournful rendition of a usually-merry drinking song— “And it's no, nay, never, no, nay, never no more will I play the wild rover, no, never no more”—at the pace of a funeral march, sung with all possible drama.

Bilbo was on his third plate when Thorin at last finished what seemed to be quite a serious conversation with Balin and turned to him. “So, Bilbo,” said Thorin, “how are you enjoying your Saturday morning?”

“It seems that last night’s party never stopped, only sobered up,” said Bilbo.

Thorin laughed. “Very true. But then, among my Company, it is always a party of sorts.”

“I should expect them by now,” said Bilbo. He took a generous bite of the delicious pancake before him. “If you don’t mind my saying so, Thorin, you’ve grown a great deal warmer toward me since we first met!”

“I have the same pride that my father and grandfather handed down to me,” said Thorin. “It is the pride of a dwarf and not easily overcome! But you have proven your worth a dozen times over since you joined our Company, and for that…I am grateful.”

Bilbo looked at Thorin. The dwarf’s expression was frank and open and something about it made Bilbo’s heart jump in his chest. “I’m grateful, too,” said Bilbo. “For all your hospitality and how kind you’ve been all this time.”

“After Smaug is defeated,” said Thorin slowly, “where do you think you’ll go?”

“Oh, back to The Hobbit Hole, I shouldn’t wonder,” said Bilbo. He poked at his pancake, unsure why the thought made him feel so queer and out of sorts. “I do miss it.”

Thorin sighed. “I should not be surprised,” he said. “You have a home to go back to, when this adventure is over.”

Bilbo was not wholly sure what to make of Thorin’s statement, but his appetite was wholly ruined anyway. Later on, the only thing he could think was that Thorin would somehow _miss_ Bilbo’s presence in the kitchen. But that couldn’t possibly be so—just as it couldn’t be that Bilbo would miss being in the kitchen with Thorin.

 

***

 

“All that is left,” said Thorin one evening when he, Balin, Gandalf, and Bilbo met to discuss the state of affairs, “is to deal with the cursed dragon Smaug.”

Balin nodded. “Indeed. The money is quite in order—for which, Bilbo, we ought to thank you.”

“It’s been no trouble at all!” said Bilbo. “I am only glad that I could help. Now, what is it we must worry about with this dragon?”

“He has, by and large, begun to leave us alone,” said Thorin. “His lair has been quiet and perhaps he is sleeping on his hoard again! But in that hoard lies a treasure beyond value, one which would make our victory plain to all!”

Bilbo cleared his throat. “I thought you said I would not have to steal from this dragon.”

Gandalf chuckled. “We have not yet asked you to do such a thing, Bilbo,” he said. “Your eagerness betrays you.”

“The recipe book of my forefathers is buried in the depths of Smaug’s lair,” said Thorin, going on without paying the slightest bit of attention to either Bilbo or Gandalf. “In it are contained many treasures, especially the Golden Cupcakes of Thror. Its cover is set with the Arkenstone, a jewel of such beauty that it is without peer in the world! That book is not his legal property. It is stolen and he cannot object if we take back what is ours. We must retrieve it!”

Balin coughed delicately. “And will the company go in to find it…?”

“No,” said Bilbo with some reluctance. “I will. Smaug does not know me or my smell; he will not see me coming! If I can slip into his hoard and out again, then he will be none the wiser.”

Though Bilbo’s heart quailed at the thought of facing a real live dragon, the look of gratitude on Thorin’s handsome face was more than enough of a reward for him. “I shall never be able to thank you enough,” said the dwarf.

“Begin with a free coffee on Wednesdays when I come by,” said Bilbo.

“When you come by?”

Bilbo nodded, resolute. “I can’t simply stop speaking to you after all this, can I?”

“I had expected you to return to the Shire,” said Thorin. He looked down at Bilbo, inscrutable as ever except for his shining eyes. “I said that you would be a burden, that you would not be able to keep up in our kitchens, that you had no place among us. I have never been so wrong in all my life!”

Bilbo nearly fainted in the next moment, for Thorin had seized Bilbo in a powerful embrace. It felt very much like being struck by lightning again. In that moment Bilbo thought that he would right this instant walk right to the East of East and fight the wild Were-Worms in the Last Desert if only Thorin would do this again.

The moment ended sooner than Bilbo should have liked. Thorin released him, still holding his shoulders, and smiled. “Our success is as ever in your hands.”

“I will not fail,” promised Bilbo.

But when he was in a taxicab on the way to Smaug’s lair, he thought of dragon-fire in the darkness and shuddered. In the ancient days, there were the legends of great dragons like Ancalagon the Black, drakes with wings that could blot out the sun, fierce and terrible. Smaug may well be a latter-day wyrm, smaller than his ancestors, and the laziest of all possible dragons, but even so!

At the doors of Smaug’s lair, Bilbo very nearly turned back. He stood upon the back step—for there was a secret way in, the knowledge of which Gandalf had got by secret means—and argued with himself for long moments. He was after all only a little hobbit; one could not expect him to go up against a dragon and win!

Yet when he thought of Gandalf’s words, so long ago, that Bilbo would be “as fierce as a dragon in a pinch,” and of Thorin’s grateful smile, Bilbo knew that forward was the only way to go.

 

***

 

Smaug’s lair was lit by the light of the dragon. For his scales shone with a light of their own, and it glittered over the hoard of gold beneath him. It was a wonder to Bilbo that no one had slain Smaug yet; then again, this was a much more civilized Age, and people were unlikely to have dragon-slaying weapons lying about. Also, this gold—though it was quite in excess!—would be likely to shatter the local economy completely should it all enter circulation at once. Sensibly, they let the dragon keep the gold.

Bilbo stood in awe of Smaug’s splendor. Luckily for him the dragon was sleeping, or Smaug would have snapped him up and eaten him faster than a dwarf eating a truffle. Very carefully, Bilbo stepped forward onto the sliding, clinking mounds of gold. He tiptoed with great caution forward, pausing at every snort and wisp of smoke, wondering if now Smaug would awaken and devour him. But he did not stop: the recipe book with the Golden Cupcakes of Thror and the Arkenstone must be around here somewhere.

And then Bilbo saw it. Right beneath Smaug’s nose, where the paper might be in danger of bursting into flames at the slightest provocation. It was a huge tome, and set into the cover was indeed a great gleaming jewel that must certainly be the pinnacle of Smaug’s hoard. That jewel could only be the Arkenstone!

Even more carefully, Bilbo slipped closer and closer to Smaug’s nose. There was the book, closer than ever. Just as he was within arm’s reach—

The dragon moved.

Bilbo froze in place instantly, wondering if he could perhaps escape notice by being small and unbothersome to a dragon. But he needn’t have worried; Smaug only turned over, scratched at his scales, and began to snore again. Now his head was out of the way, and Bilbo seized the book—nearly as large as he!—to trundle it out of Smaug’s lair.

 

***

 

The celebration was immense. Every one of the thirteen dwarves—and the wives of Bombur and Gloin with all their children, and Thorin’s sister Dis and brother Frerin—raised a cheer to Bilbo for his role in the great success. Gandalf, smoking in the corner, merely nodded at Bilbo, eyes twinkling over his gray beard. Bilbo, by the third time he was hoisted onto someone’s shoulders to be the object of celebration, was flushed with his own great success.

The dwarves were all very drunk and most of the food was gone by the time that Bilbo found a quiet corner to sit down and think a bit. Tomorrow would be Monday, and it was back to The Hobbit Hole for him! Back home again, but he could not help feeling a bit of a let-down.

Gandalf came and joined him, after a moment, while the dwarves broke into another song of success. “Well, then, my dear Bilbo,” he said, “I do believe this adventure has ended for the better.”

“Indeed!” Bilbo watched Kili leap up on the table to dance again and smiled. “But I shall be glad to get back to the Shire. I am only a little fellow in a wide world, after all!”

“Thank goodness!” said Gandalf, and sent a smoke-ring up from his pipe. “You have gained a great deal from this adventure, I think.”

“Indeed,” said Bilbo once again. He was looking at Thorin now, and wondering. “Do you think I shall ever see any of the dwarves again, Gandalf?”

Gandalf smiled. “Only time will tell,” he said.

 

***

 

On Monday morning Bilbo arrived to work. He set out his measuring-spoons and shook his head at the state of the kitchen and, as usual, set the coffee going. Then he took up his broom to sweep the kitchen floor with the care he always used to. It was familiar, and so terribly quiet. Bombur was not whistling in the kitchen—Oin and Gloin were not arguing—Dwalin was not thumping about at the bar—Ori’s knitting needles did not clack—it was all far too silent.

And in the kitchen there was none of Dori’s tea—Bifur and Bofur were not behind the counter—Nori was not plotting in the corner table—Balin was not coming in at the door—Fili and Kili were not late to work—and—

The bell over the door jingled merrily just as Bilbo was finishing up the sweeping. “One moment, please!” he called out to the front, and heard no more.

He finished the sweeping quickly and scurried out of the kitchen to the counter. And then Bilbo thought he might faint from surprise: there before him was _Thorin Oakenshield_ , standing at the counter of The Hobbit Hole. The only thing to say was,

“Good morning!”

“Good morning,” said Thorin. “I hope I am not intruding.”

Bilbo smiled. “Of course you are not,” he said. “What brings you here this morning?”

“Well, not to put too fine a point on it, but…I wished to see you,” said Thorin. He looked nervous indeed, as if he had the same butterflies in his stomach as Bilbo had in his!

“Funny, that,” said Bilbo. “I wished to see you. Why don’t you come on back and we can talk?”

Thorin smiled, and Bilbo let him behind the counter. Together they went back to the kitchen, chatting like the best of friends. After a mere moment or two, Thorin rolled up his sleeves to help make bread, and suddenly the kitchen of The Hobbit Hole felt as cosy as the kitchen of Erebor ever did.

It could hardly be surprising when Thorin gave Bilbo a slightly floury embrace when he departed at the end of the day: a promise of, perhaps, something more.

“Well, Bilbo Baggins,” said Bilbo, sitting down to recover when Thorin was out the door, “you’ve got yourself right into another adventure!”

An adventure it was, and one which would be just as long and winding as the first.

But the important thing, really, is that they all lived happily ever after, until the end of their days.


End file.
